He was no longer accustomed to awakening this way. The hangover threw him for a loop, but his past alcoholic instincts kicked in and he quickly scrounged around the kitchen cupboards for his sister's weed.
He found the pipe.
After placing it on the petri dish he resumed scrambling for the goods.
BAM. Right behind the foreign coffee, not the Maxwell House stuff; like she always did.
The terrace provided all the types of freedom available before she moved in. He loved his sister, but the trick she pulled to move herself into his apartment was a cunning feet worthy of either only Satan or Santa Claus - and he hated them both because each represented his father's fist against his face while his sister was abusively relinquished under holiday cheer.
He hated her too. But he loved her. She was his sister, and every time he saw her he could not help but think about all of those years when he was knocked around the house by their drunken father while their passive mother stood by and watched until she was born - then all three of them watched while the drunken father knocked his ass from room to room while their passive mother never said a word, never lifted a hand to protect him; never disinfected the cuts running crimson downside his body.
But it all came back in that sadistic evening. His greatest girlfriend told him to meet her there. The love of his life was expecting him to be there. He walked into that bar, only to see the love of his life kissing the ex-boyfriend of her life.
She saw him.
He walked out.
She ran after him.
He dipped into the soul of the only spirit that ever knew him. He dipped into the city's shadows. She ran right past him, calling his name. Maybe she was sorry, but he didn't care. He knew what he saw. He knew what he felt. It was dad's backfist all over again.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Bane of Detective Alvarez
The moon tried hiding behind a blown over valley of saddened clouds, but the night was too young and in tune with the excitement of the city, so that astral speck of supposedly lifeless rock shined brightly upon that damned California city.
Detective Windsor Alvarez stubbed out his cigarette on the forehead of the lifeless bum passed out on crystal meth in the alley's corner entrance before making his way to the crime scene. He could smell the murderer from ten feet away, not because the bastard was near but because the douchebag had left that condescending scent behind.
After dressing his hands with the latex gloves, Detective Alvarez pressed his hands upon the descended driver's side window, peering his head through the opening, knowing that The Strawberry Slasher had struck again.
The alignement was different but the murdering premise was the same. The corpse was splayed out across the front seats. Its left arm had been thrown over the passenger's side seat. The killer wanted the visual to make more of an impact this time. The bastard was gaining confidence.
Downward, all along the chest and stomach area was where the victim had been sliced open, probably again with a razor, but this time the wounded area was surprisingly clean. Strawberry Slasher had cleaned up the slaughtered areas before implanting the freshly picked pseudofruits, outlining the trajectory of the brutal incisions. The fact that the killer had enough time to execute such a detailed scenario made Detective Alvarez hate the city even more. But not as much as he hated Florida. And not as much as he hated his first name.
Detective Windsor Alvarez stubbed out his cigarette on the forehead of the lifeless bum passed out on crystal meth in the alley's corner entrance before making his way to the crime scene. He could smell the murderer from ten feet away, not because the bastard was near but because the douchebag had left that condescending scent behind.
After dressing his hands with the latex gloves, Detective Alvarez pressed his hands upon the descended driver's side window, peering his head through the opening, knowing that The Strawberry Slasher had struck again.
The alignement was different but the murdering premise was the same. The corpse was splayed out across the front seats. Its left arm had been thrown over the passenger's side seat. The killer wanted the visual to make more of an impact this time. The bastard was gaining confidence.
Downward, all along the chest and stomach area was where the victim had been sliced open, probably again with a razor, but this time the wounded area was surprisingly clean. Strawberry Slasher had cleaned up the slaughtered areas before implanting the freshly picked pseudofruits, outlining the trajectory of the brutal incisions. The fact that the killer had enough time to execute such a detailed scenario made Detective Alvarez hate the city even more. But not as much as he hated Florida. And not as much as he hated his first name.
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Pick Your Poison
Leave it to me. I just finished watching Lucio Fulci’s New York Ripper for better than a third time, yet the film still tantalizes me; quacking, gutting, and all.
I left the homegrown theater that was showing it, and upon entering my car, I immediately recognized the scent of strawberries, plunging me into an evolution of paranoia. I fashioned myself into my personal driving position.
Instantly, my meandering wonderments struck an anonymous diatribe amongst personalities – “THIS IS IT? THIS is how I’m going to die? I couldn’t be butchered by some inbred, chainsaw wielding psychopath; NO – I’m getting killed by the Strawberry Slasher?! - A deranged serial killer that kills victims while distributing a strawberry scent.
I’ve spent half of my life trying to convince my mother I’m NOT gay, and the other half trying to convince my friends that I was too busy to hang out, hoping that they would think I WAS gay and leave me alone, but here comes the Strawberry Slasher. This slayer doesn’t care about sexuality or situations. This one’s an impromptu killer. He or She hates everything and everyone while indulging in the finer scents of life.
I was really hoping for the garden tooled maniac; instead I got the pleasantly smelling black sheep psycho.
I left the homegrown theater that was showing it, and upon entering my car, I immediately recognized the scent of strawberries, plunging me into an evolution of paranoia. I fashioned myself into my personal driving position.
Instantly, my meandering wonderments struck an anonymous diatribe amongst personalities – “THIS IS IT? THIS is how I’m going to die? I couldn’t be butchered by some inbred, chainsaw wielding psychopath; NO – I’m getting killed by the Strawberry Slasher?! - A deranged serial killer that kills victims while distributing a strawberry scent.
I’ve spent half of my life trying to convince my mother I’m NOT gay, and the other half trying to convince my friends that I was too busy to hang out, hoping that they would think I WAS gay and leave me alone, but here comes the Strawberry Slasher. This slayer doesn’t care about sexuality or situations. This one’s an impromptu killer. He or She hates everything and everyone while indulging in the finer scents of life.
I was really hoping for the garden tooled maniac; instead I got the pleasantly smelling black sheep psycho.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Echo Sprints
I had been running.
I awoke on the highway, sprinting past a drop-top BMW as the driver chatted on their cell phone. Instinctively, I knocked it from her grasp, flipping her off before the curse words had a chance to echo up to the blue sky.
What direction do echoes travel? Upwards I presume.
I was travelling forward, and that’s about all I knew. The previous night I had been working the door at The Firewall. I couldn’t recall anything out of the ordinary happening, but I couldn’t recall anything that happened after locking up the front, but as I gasped for breath I could feel a slight striding pain at the base of the knap of my neck; like someone had pierced it, probably injected me with something. Whatever was it had to have some ephedrine in it because my legs felt like badly worn semi-truck tires ready to blow out. My quads were pulverized, ready to snap; luckily my hamstrings were holding it together, and my dick was harder than a diamond.
Turning the mountain’s corner strained my body but there was nothing within me that suggested I should stop, because if I did I feared my heart would explode. The blood needed to keep rushing, I needed to keep running.
I awoke on the highway, sprinting past a drop-top BMW as the driver chatted on their cell phone. Instinctively, I knocked it from her grasp, flipping her off before the curse words had a chance to echo up to the blue sky.
What direction do echoes travel? Upwards I presume.
I was travelling forward, and that’s about all I knew. The previous night I had been working the door at The Firewall. I couldn’t recall anything out of the ordinary happening, but I couldn’t recall anything that happened after locking up the front, but as I gasped for breath I could feel a slight striding pain at the base of the knap of my neck; like someone had pierced it, probably injected me with something. Whatever was it had to have some ephedrine in it because my legs felt like badly worn semi-truck tires ready to blow out. My quads were pulverized, ready to snap; luckily my hamstrings were holding it together, and my dick was harder than a diamond.
Turning the mountain’s corner strained my body but there was nothing within me that suggested I should stop, because if I did I feared my heart would explode. The blood needed to keep rushing, I needed to keep running.
Saturday, October 02, 2010
Suddenly, Last Summer - Movie Review
Suddenly, Last Summer is originally a one-act play written by Tennessee Williams and is a monologue orated by Violet, so in order to turn this single person play into a full length feature film might seem tricky but director Joseph L. Mankiewicz and legendary screenplay writer Gore Vidal along with along with the original creator Tennessee Williams made the material transition from stage play to the silver screen in a smooth fashion, extending Dr. Cukrwicz’s involvement in the ordeal and expanding on Catherine’s character. The only issue that felt slightly forced was the growing romance between the Catherine and the doctor; it seemed out of place but Elizabeth Taylor was one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood back in 1959; I lost my breath a few times while watching this movie, so I’m sure Montgomery Clift didn’t object much.
As Violet, Katherine Hepburn turns in yet another memorable performance. Whenever she is onscreen she unleashes her talent upon the world and everyone else is just trying to keep up, even making everyone around her better actors. That year both Katherine Hepburn and Elizabeth Taylor were nominated for Best Actress at the Oscars for this film. Taylor does indeed shine as the emotionally vulnerable and mentally tortured Catherine while Montgomery Clift plays Dr. Cukrowicz with a granite-like expression as he acts powerfully with his mind and through his eyes throughout most of the film.
Suddenly, Last Summer is a powerful piece that keeps the mystery fresh, the tension high, and the audience engaged.
Friday, October 01, 2010
Muddy Truth
The knocking on the door turned into kicking AND knocking. I awoke from the last pleasant slumber I could recall only to walk from my room, past the living area of my apartment so I could open the door for my Uncle Phillip.
He limped in, taking his favorite seat; the one that faced the television so he could read the reflections in case anyone else entered the room. We shared a cup of tea at the table in the midst of the kitchen area, and by sharing I mean I poured a cup for both of us, but I knew he wouldn’t even take a second look at his offering.
“How are you?” Phillip asked.
“Fine,” I said.
“How’s Meredith?”
I was clueless on my answer. Uncle Phillip had been dead only a month, yet I didn’t have the guts (pardon the pun) to tell him that Aunt Sonjya was already dating; some chiropractic schmuck that lived out by the island. He’s actually pretty cool.
“She’s fine,” I said. “I think she’s come to terms with everything – she’s fine.”
“Good,” Uncle Phillip said as an earthworm dripped down his right cheek, pouring from beneath his right eyeball, biting on the last physical remnants of his rotting right cheek. He could smile, frown, or embrace apathy; either way, his teeth were going to show.
“She’s happy?” Uncle Phillip asked. It nearly broke my heart to answer him, considering how awesome of a couple him and Aunt Sonjya were, but I wasn’t about to lie to family.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Good,” was Uncle Phillips reply, but by the look on the rotting, sagging gray flesh of his brow and his sinking eyeballs; it was more than an admittance of being passed over – it was more like a relief because his greatest treasure was happy.
When I awoke the next morning I was still at my kitchen table. Apparently Uncle Phillip and I partook in a game that required tequila shots. I dragged my wishfully dead body to the front door. I opened it and peered into the hallway where I found muddy footprints departing from my apartment back to where dead bodies go and where memories of the dead blossom.
He limped in, taking his favorite seat; the one that faced the television so he could read the reflections in case anyone else entered the room. We shared a cup of tea at the table in the midst of the kitchen area, and by sharing I mean I poured a cup for both of us, but I knew he wouldn’t even take a second look at his offering.
“How are you?” Phillip asked.
“Fine,” I said.
“How’s Meredith?”
I was clueless on my answer. Uncle Phillip had been dead only a month, yet I didn’t have the guts (pardon the pun) to tell him that Aunt Sonjya was already dating; some chiropractic schmuck that lived out by the island. He’s actually pretty cool.
“She’s fine,” I said. “I think she’s come to terms with everything – she’s fine.”
“Good,” Uncle Phillip said as an earthworm dripped down his right cheek, pouring from beneath his right eyeball, biting on the last physical remnants of his rotting right cheek. He could smile, frown, or embrace apathy; either way, his teeth were going to show.
“She’s happy?” Uncle Phillip asked. It nearly broke my heart to answer him, considering how awesome of a couple him and Aunt Sonjya were, but I wasn’t about to lie to family.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Good,” was Uncle Phillips reply, but by the look on the rotting, sagging gray flesh of his brow and his sinking eyeballs; it was more than an admittance of being passed over – it was more like a relief because his greatest treasure was happy.
When I awoke the next morning I was still at my kitchen table. Apparently Uncle Phillip and I partook in a game that required tequila shots. I dragged my wishfully dead body to the front door. I opened it and peered into the hallway where I found muddy footprints departing from my apartment back to where dead bodies go and where memories of the dead blossom.
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